A Better Version Of Me
by amor-remanet
Summary: In which Derek Morgan and Penelope Garcia help Spencer Reid come to certain realizations about himself. EXPLICIT m/m sex  Morgan/Reid , cross-dressing, masturbation, public sex, orgasm denial.
1. Chapter 1

Without considering any of his costume, Spencer follows his instinct into the men's room. His legs wobble like Jell-O molds as he shifts to this new floor from the restaurant's carpet, and his heel shoes click heavily on the tiles. Even though Garcia gave him lessons in walking properly in these, they pinch his feet and his calves are straining, rigidity and heat blooming venomously through the muscle tissue. Out there, he's hardly touched his drink, he hasn't eaten anything since two in the afternoon, and the waist cincher still might suffocate him. Carelessly, he drops his little purse on the counter. Why women haven't yet designed dresses with pockets just escapes him.

He doesn't even recognize the person who looks back at him from the mirror, behind her cosmetics and her (fake) styled hair. Reflected here isn't Spencer; it's Sophia, and she's a lie. Underneath the little black dress he borrowed from Emily, he doesn't have this little waist or these pad-crafted hips where his sidearm should be. The C-cup bra might contain high-quality falsies or the worst set in existence. They look real enough, and Spencer wouldn't know the difference, anyway. Before three weeks ago, before Derek proposed this misadventure, he'd never considered drag or passing as more than interesting human phenomena. Now his legs have been waxed, something he'll never do again; they're in sheer nylons, only showing to the knees, and they feel naked. Things are worse for his forearms, also waxed and bare until practically his shoulders.

Nothing about his face looks right, which he guesses was the point. Blush, concealer, foundation, and other things from Garcia's bag of trickery have filled in angles, created new ones, changed color schemes, and made him look almost feminine. Were it not for him, the illusion would probably work quite well, but he can't stomach this radical change. He wants to claw off Sophia's fake eyelashes, strangle her with her overpriced scarf (a necessary and dress-matching precaution, Garcia told him; women don't have Adam's apples as prominent as Spencer's), and just be himself... and yet, he can't. Looking like Spencer is right out tonight - a thought that makes him double over. As much as he can in a junior corset, anyway. He keeps his hands on the counter, so he doesn't topple to the floor. Somehow, he doubts that explaining to Hotch and Strauss that he sprained his ankle in heels would go very well.

Grimacing, Spencer catches Sophia's eye in the mirror. Garcia's handiwork is admirable; if he didn't know better, he might actually think he's looking at a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman whose eye makeup seems to be running - damn it. He's an FBI agent, a profiler. He's survived worse, far worse, than getting passed off as a girl at dinner.

The door opens, closes; a pair of solid, flat shoes pad into the room; a lock pops into place. Damn it, he should have thought about that first. And there isn't a negative reaction to seeing a (superficial) woman in here - Spencer can guess who it is before he even opens his mouth.

"Pretty boy?" Derek asks carefully. "You all right?"

"I gotta hand it to Garcia. She really did a great job on this, Sophia."

Derek runs his thumb down Spencer's cheek and, true to their names and promises, the different pancakes on his face stay put there. This isn't an unfamiliar intersection of actions, or something that Spencer would dislike normally, but something's inherently different. Everything feels sick and hazy. Already, his view seems limited - the fake lashes and mascara weigh his eyelids down; they have to, he's sure they do - but now the world all moves slow and sticky. Even through the multiple layers of gunk, each minuscule bit of pressure from Derek's thumb is horrifyingly self-insistent.

Spencer's stomach churns, hurricane violent, and he bolts from the table.

Derek lays his hand on Spencer's elbow; Spencer jerks away, and when Derek speaks again, something still isn't right. He sounds like he has no idea what's going on. "Spencer...?"

"Who's Sophia?" There are no attempts made at pretending to be female. The voice asking is unmistakably Spencer's.

"Excuse me?"

Pushing himself up off the counter, Spencer turns to face Derek, who's still allowed to be in his suit and tie, in his own skin. The dichotomy is attractive, sure; it plays up several elements of Derek's personality and appearance that Spencer loves - that he's so well-built, that he's masculine but so gentle with his hands, that he's always looking out for a chance to take care of Spencer. Everything is brought into stark light and shown off like a trick pony. Spencer thinks he could find it in him to like this idea, but there'd be less underlying disgust if he could have come out tonight as himself.

"Who's Sophia?" he asks again, crossing his arms under the falsies, lest he pop them or something worse. "I mean, you obviously want me to be more like her - tell me what she's like and I'll try harder."

"That isn't funny-"

"Who said I'm being funny?" He isn't. Sardonic, maybe, there's an edge in his voice that surprises him, even though he knows what he's saying. But he isn't being funny. "That's why you wanted me to get dressed up like this, isn't it? Because it makes me look more like her?"

"Spencer - pretty boy, it isn't - it is not anything like that-"

"Then what is it like, Derek? That was my only theory, and no one's buying that I'm a girl - I mean, I'm taller than you without these... these heels, and I can't see what's so great about dragging me out like this, so, you know... an explanation wouldn't hurt right now."

With unforeseen skill, Derek puts a hand at Spencer's side, managing to find one of the only places where there isn't some underthing creating a feminine silhouette. He worms his thumb and two fingers into the chink in the reshaping armor, rubbing the fabric against Spencer's skin as he does. Begrudgingly, Spencer has to admit that the Maggy London, acetate/nylon/spandex blend feels nice where it catches him. Derek's fingers feel better - gentle, like they'd be normally, but the extra force is obvious; Spencer's only logical conclusion is that Derek would prefer it if he didn't struggle.

Only when Derek's other hand repeats this process on Spencer's other side does snaking around beneath his hands seem like a better option than waiting quietly. Each movement drags the cool, soft fabric against his skin, makes the cincher's ties and ribbing try harder to hold on to his waist... and, with each shifting, Spencer feels himself increasingly relax. He's never felt anything quite like the stuff these clothes are made of - different elements are familiar, but the assemblage is all different and unexplored. Breathing slower on purpose, Spencer takes his time exhaling, feeling his stomach press against the cincher again. Shuddering when he next breathes in, Spencer writhes under Derek's hands again.

Derek doesn't kiss him any differently. Aggressive as ever, he leans up and makes the first, open-mouthed move. He doesn't wait very long before running his tongue along Spencer's, along his teeth and the roof of his mouth, leaving behind his particular, familiar taste and traces of the Cabernet he picked. It's all intimately ingrained in Spencer's memory, something to which he's closely accustomed, and his reactions are like the properly contradictory chess strategy. Looking like her hasn't turned Spencer into Sophia yet tonight, and now is no exception. He turns his head so deepening things is easier, and as he forcefully kisses back, the lipstick smears. When he bites on Derek's lower lip, he can taste it, and he feels it between them besides. Not having the sensation of Derek's lips alone is new - were the lines there always in that pattern? Were they always so finely textured, or is that a very recent development?

Spencer's breath hitches and he grabs onto Derek's upper arm, jerks them closer together. He falls back into the counter and sitting on it makes kissing Derek easier in a way they've never had before - Derek always needs to lean up, and they're close to level with each other now. The heels slide out on the tiles; to keep them from escaping and spraining his ankles, Spencer tightens his knees around Derek's legs. Between that and the hands on Derek's arm and tie, Spencer is simply unforgiving in pulling Derek closer to him; wrapping an arm around Derek's shoulders, Spencer keeps him close. Rubbing, grinding up against him is like before, but with the waist cincher between them. For all Spencer feels Derek pressing back, for all he feels more of the cincher on his skin.

Derek's hold on him is firm, even as he slides his hands down the padding on Spencer's hips. Briefly, they stay put, pressing into Spencer as he tries to wriggle around, and then there's something else. One of Derek's knees comes up between Spencer's legs, gingerly forcing up the hemline of his dress until it's high enough for Derek's hands to grab. Bunching the dress up around Spencer's waist, Derek runs the back of his hand down from where the waist cincher ends. His fingers rub against skin and then the tip of Spencer's cock, through the nylons and the panties. It would be easier to moan the way he wants to, but Spencer doesn't want to give in so easily.

So Derek gets to work on earning that reaction. His eyes glint and his smirk gets quite cocksure - but Spencer only shakes his head. He kisses Derek briefly, to acquiesce to something more, but he still doesn't make a noise. Nylons peel away first. Expertly, Derek lifts the inordinately expensive panties off Spencer's skin and pulls them down with the tights. As one entity, they bunch up around the middle of Spencer's thighs. Derek's hand is warm and firm around his cock, but rather than moan, Spencer pulls Derek in for a slower kiss than before. This time, Spencer takes the lead, massaging Derek's lips in time with every stroke up his erection.

Keeping one arm around Derek's shoulders and his legs tight on Derek's, Spencer tilts his hips. His free hand goes to Derek's waist first, and slides the leather belt out of its buckle. As he jerks Derek's shirt untucked and trousers unbuttoned, there's none of the composure he usually tries (and often fails) to have. It's all quick, dirty - and he wastes no time before grabbing Derek's cock. The kiss breaks when he drags his thumb up Derek's shaft. Derek moans first.

"You are so fucking pretty," he manages to say.

"Derek," Spencer tells him throatily, leaning up to his ear. "I want you to fuck me."

Practically, it's an experiment that makes sense: if Derek fucks him all the same, then there's no Sophia to be worried over. Nodding, Derek kisses him again, and Spencer retracts his hand, loosens his hold on Derek's legs. Derek crouches fluidly, rolling the tights and panties further down, all the way to Spencer's knees. One hand on each of Spencer's thighs, Derek slowly spreads his legs and, trying to accommodate him, Spencer leans back, resting his head and shoulders on the mirror. For a moment, Derek pauses and presses a kiss to the base of Spencer's cock; Spencer can't help moaning this time.

Derek's smirk is devilishly self-satisfied. With flourish, he sticks two fingers inside his mouth. Knowing what happens next, Spencer chooses not to watch. He looks up to the ceiling and gasps when, instead of Derek's fingers, he feels his partner's wet lips on his asshole. Derek's tongue comes next, flicking around the hole and surrounding skin. The wetness isn't nearly as important as the texture, and Spencer lowers himself towards Derek's tongue. Before he can really enjoy it, though, Derek's standing again, bending over the counter and positioning himself. Spencer nods at him when Derek catches his eye.

Even though Derek goes slowly, gently, Spencer's breath hitches, and his first feeling isn't as pleasurable as he'd prefer. They don't usually get this far during on-case downtime, they can't, and time between cases has been rare, lately. He shouldn't forget how thick Derek's cock is, but palming it isn't the same as taking it. The shock and initial pain recede quickly, and Spencer shifts his hips accordingly. At his first moan, Derek speeds up his thrusts. They come harder, faster. Spencer tries to keep up, moving himself up and down Derek's shaft.

One of Spencer's hands goes down to his own cock. He wraps his hand around it tightly and his strokes easily fall into rhythm with Derek's thrusts. Spencer curls a hand up in Derek's lapel and the waist chincher makes his breathing speed up faster - Derek's thrusts are faster, harder, and they can't be loud, but-

"Derek!" he moans, his voice low and his tone fevered intensity.

Derek brushes Spencer's hand to the side, takes over stroking his cock - but it throws off the rhythm, and the pressure isn't right. Laying one hand on top of Derek's, Spencer guides him to the proper speed, the correct hold - and the synchrony is perfect. Two thrusts more and they come together. Spencer does so on their hands, and he thinks he can see some on the dress, but he may as well be blind. The pleasure is warm, and overwhelming. For several minutes, all they do is try to breathe.

Then Spencer's phone has to go and start ringing; JJ's ringtone blares through the bathroom. He snatches up the purse and pulls it out, trying to ignore that Derek looks more than a little put out by this. Even though Spencer tells him that the call is important, he's still frowning when Spencer answers it.

"Spence," JJ says grimly. He doesn't like the sound of this already. "Is Derek with you?" Spencer tells her that they were at dinner, and nothing else. "Well, I - I'm sorry for interrupting, and I know it's late, but... the case that just came in is a bad one. I need you two to get in as soon as possible."

Agreeing, and bidding her goodbye, Spencer hangs up and looks to Derek. With a sigh, Derek runs the back of his hand down Spencer's cheek.

"Explaining this to the team is going to be... fun," Spencer says by way of making things less quiet. "This isn't suspension-worthy, is it?"

"Not if we don't make an issue out of it - you know, get dinner packed up and get there quickly." Derek's expression is unenthusiastic at this prospect. "Man, I told you before, pretty boy: every time I get my groove thing going, it's back to the BAU."

"We'll just have to, you know... pick this back up another night." For want of something to do with his hands, Spencer straightens Derek's tie and works on smoothing out his lapels. "There's something I can change into in the car, right? Like, my go bag or something?"

"And makeup remover." Spencer smiles, but he doesn't look at Derek until he feels two fingers under his chin, lifting his face up. "Are we okay, Spencer? No more of this 'who's Sophia' business, right?"

"I know... there isn't any Sophia," Spencer tells him. "This was just trying something new for its own sake?" Derek nods. "Yeah, I - I mean, we'll have to talk about repeating this any time soon, but we're definitely okay. ...Do you think Emily's going to mind waiting to get this dress back?"

Derek leans in for another kiss. "You get straightened up. I'll go get the check and the car.


	2. Chapter 2

"Reid, for the love of all things bright and beautiful, will you sit still?"

Spencer sighs, folding his hands in his lap and lifting his eyes up to the ceiling again. After doing this once before - and for a longer, more complicated procedure - Spencer knows he shouldn't be nearly so fussy. The issue is simply that Garcia is, once again, doing his make up. JJ, Emily, and Detective Anderson are lucky. All they got was a set of guidelines and the permission to dress themselves. Spencer and Derek got stuck here, under Garcia's care. True, she knows what she's doing; there are limits, though.

"I don't know why this is necessary," he says with a sigh.

Garcia frowns like an irritated kitten. "How about 'because the pretty lady with the eyeliner pencil said so?' How's that for necessary? Stop talking and let me work."

"Garcia, only three days ago, I was trying to pass myself off as a girl named Sophia." He can't help looking back down at her, and, in his corner of this tiny office, Derek smirks like he's trying not to laugh. At least aforementioned pencil hasn't gotten back on Spencer's face yet.

"No. Really? Gosh, I don't remember doing your makeup for that at all."

"I'm just saying that I trust your - your handiwork, if you will? But I have really, seriously had more than enough contact with makeup than I ever wanted. The skirt and corset combination should be fine."

"Interesting coincidence, my beautiful brainiac. I've heard more complaining out of you about this than I have from anybody else, ever, about anything." Spencer very much doubts this claim, but arguing with Garcia got him into this current predicament. He can't trust that she won't do worse, if given the chance. And yet...

"I don't like how it feels on my face, okay?"

"And I don't like it when pretty-mouthed doctors argue with me when I know what's best." This smile is new from her, but Spencer suspects she's actually quite practiced in it. "Do you want this undercover operation to go wrong and get you bitten by Count Unsub von Creepface?"

"Well, no, but I don't know what this is going to accomplish in the first place."

"Bossman told me to get you and Derek dressed up to go clubbing, and, kitten, I do not make a point of questioning his judgment."

"Our unsub is on a spree, sending us into his hunting ground-"

"Is what he said to do with you. Don't tell me you're scared, Doctor Dashing."

"Sacred? Me? Of being in a dark room, filled with people, where we may or may not find our delusional unsub - who, by the way, stabs people to death and then bites into their necks like a vampire? Not at all."

"Pumpkin, I'm going to live in a world where you weren't just snarky with me and keep making you look the part. Cute as you are, an important element of looking like a goth boy is the make-up-"

"So the drag is necessary, too, then?"

For the first time since she started taking her tools to his face, she gives him a sympathetic look. Everything about her softens, and the sarcasm dissipates. With her kinder smile, she brushes a piece of hair back off his face. "Precious, I wouldn't be making you do this if I didn't think it was necessary, alright? Now can we hurry up? I need to do your nails for tonight too-"

"My nails?" Spencer gapes at her, and then at Derek, as though this will make him step in and be a knight in shining mesh tank-top and bondage pants.

Garcia shrugs. "I could make Hotch do them, if you want."

Grimacing, Spencer looks back up at the ceiling. She sighs before returning to her work. The pencil is soft enough not to be irritating, but that doesn't mean it feels any better dragging against Spencer's skin. It's a squirming sensation, having to sit here while she dolls him up - or maybe that's just Spencer's stomach writhing around at the thought of this. Each of her strokes is slow, calculating, and they all make Spencer feel sicker. Wrinkling his nose, he wrings his hands and shifts on his seat again. Garcia groans and retracts her pencil, frowning at him with an indignation that is probably reserved for him alone, at this point.

"Seriously. Seriously? Did we not just go over this, Boy Wonder? Are you always like this?" She turns around in her seat, looking at Derek. "Is he always like this?"

Although he shrugs, Derek's smirking like a devil. "Pretty much, baby girl," he tells her. "It's one of his endearing genius things."

"Endearing?" Even if he can't see it, Spencer can visualize her expression, and he's fairly certain that he doesn't like it. He doesn't much enjoy being talked about as though he isn't here, either, but all things considered, it could be worse. "You, my mahogany Adonis, must have the patience of a saint."

"You know," Spencer chimes in, "if you look at any of the descriptions of Adonis in the mythological writings, given that he's supposed to be a youth, there's reason to conclude that, of the two of us, he'd look more like me, where Derek would be more in line with Zeus. Of course, since Adonis became Aphrodite's consort when he was co-opted into Greek mythology out of the West Semitic mystery cults, I'd prefer to be Ganymede, but the central problem with both of them is the lack of action that they show in their respective stories so, really, I..."

The look he's getting from Garcia makes Spencer stop dead. "Baby Einstein, if you can sit still long enough to tell me all that, you can stop fussing long enough for me to get you prettied up for the club tonight."

While her logic isn't entirely sound, Spencer does see an important point underlying this whole exchange: their time here is limited and, whether he likes it or not, there isn't any way that he's getting out of this assignment. Unfortunately, this is Seattle, not Atlanta, and the unsub they're hunting goes to goth clubs, not more mainstream ones. Moreover, this is an undercover operation, not showing off a police sketch and trying to spread awareness about a dangerous man. Since there's not another option, Garcia may as well have a weapon aimed at him, and his best bet is to let her have her way.

At least, she tries to finish this quickly, or as quickly as she can afford to move. While she works her magic on his face, Spencer just tries to watch Derek, looking out of the corners of his eyes every so often. While Derek's enthusiasm for this assignment is barely noticeable, it's still more present than Spencer would expect, given that their history with undercover operations is checkered, at best. There has to be some reason for it, and if Spencer can't discern it from observing his partner, then they have other problems to worry about once this is over.

Perhaps, though, he should better appreciate what he gets to do tonight, and this fact isn't lost on him. As much as he isn't a fan of going out to clubs, but he prefers enduring them with Derek, rather than with Emily, JJ, Garcia, or a detecting he's only known for two days. Is it work? Yes, undoubtedly - but Hotch knows about him and Derek. How can he not? He's the team's leader for a reason; surely, he's noticed the changes in their rapport since Cyrus, since Spencer got held hostage by another overzealous unsub. Spencer's just lucky that Hotch thinks sending him and Derek in together is the best idea.

The best thing to be said for this is that Garcia knows what she's doing with her makeup. For all Spencer comes out looking dead, or like a cross-dressing stunt double for The Crow, she must be doing something right. His face is covered in white pancake to the point that he wonders where the skin begins; his eyes are raccoon-rimmed in heavy lines of black, and, once again, he's suffering through mascara weighing down his eyes. She's forced him into black lipstick, which he just can't understand. More surprising than that, and what he can't help noticing, is that Derek can't stop looking at these developments.

Any time Spencer pauses, for any reason, Derek's eyes are on him. Fussing with his fishnet tights and the pleats of his black miniskirt, Spencer feels Derek looking. Sitting opposite Garcia while she buffs and paints his nails black, he manages to catch Derek staring at the masterful strokes of her brush. When she helps force on Spencer's high-platformed boots, zipping them and attending to the ties, all Derek looks at is Spencer's nails underneath the drier. Possibly, there's something to this trend, and to what Spencer can conclude from it. Although he can't see himself keeping the manicure, he can't complain about how fixated on it Derek seems. Maybe the novelty will wear off, but until then, Spencer can see this being fun.

He tries to watch for himself, when Garcia tries to do Derek's makeup. There's less to watch, since the white pancake isn't an option and minimalism seems to be Garcia's plan, but even just the black eyeliner isn't as bad as Spencer thought while having his own done. She does the right eye first, tracing around the delicate curve of Derek's lower lid with the care and attention of a painter. Retracing several times, she takes the time that Spencer wouldn't let her take, and when she tells him to shut that eye, the final effect is staggering. There aren't any earth-shattering changes to Derek's eye, but it stands out more; watching the same thing happen with his other eye, Spencer can't look away.

There is definitely something to this trend.

There might also be something to the music that they're playing in The Black Widow. Aesthetically, it isn't Spencer's cup of tea, but it does just fine when he yanks Derek around by the leash and shoves him back into the nearest wall. From the dance floor to the bar, the club is a writhing mass of black-clad bodies in varying states of dress, neon colors, crazy hair, or otherwise optional, and the only two people who haven't given over some self-control to the pounding beats and blaring synths are Derek and Spencer. They might not be armed, but they have their credentials, and their handcuffs (which might as well be props; enough people in here are wearing fake ones), and there's practically a flashing sign above their heads: WE ARE FBI AGENTS. EVERYBODY, LOOK AT US.

Pinning Derek into the wall seems like a decent option for correcting this, and kissing him means there's less need to pretend about this. Spencer doesn't wait before opening his mouth, and Derek's opens invitingly? Is it in surprise? It could be; Spencer-as-aggressor is territory they haven't fully explored, and keeping time with anything has never been his strong suit. He's not managing too badly tonight, he thinks. Beat set one, he runs his tongue along Derek's lower set of teeth, back and forth, going deeper each time he doubles back. Beat set two, in (nearly) perfect synchrony with the music, he tongues the roof of Derek's mouth, the insides of his cheeks, and finally his tongue.

The music pulses harder, beating faster, faster, faster, like a tachycardic heart; atop the throbbing drum machine, the violin races and the soprano sings lyrics heavily influenced by mythology and Poe. Around them, the air burns electric from the increasing kinetic energy of so many bodies moving independently and, yet, as one. Spencer knots one hand up the leash, giving it a yank for good measure, using his other to grab onto the waistband of Derek's pants. He pressed into Derek harder, his kissing strengthening its force to complement this. None of Spencer's usual kindness underlies this closeness, and it's absent from the mad, fevered rubbing of his lips against Derek's. When he licks Derek's lips, he tastes the remnants of Garcia's black lipstick and, when he realizes this, he bites on Derek's lower lip.

Abruptly, that song ends and they get a moment to breathe while Spencer tries to figure out the patterns of the new beat and how to move with it. He doesn't relax against Derek or pull away while they catch their breaths; when Derek reaches under the skirt to grab his ass, he makes a little noise, and grinds their hips together, but somehow, he feels like that's not quite all the reaction that Derek wanted. Too bad. The next song's beat is slower, slightly, but still present, and moving in time with it, Spencer rubs close enough against Derek to feel every movement of his muscles. Shifting on his feet, cognizant of the rubber platforms beneath their feet, Spencer worms one of his legs between Derek's, brushing their thighs together, and their hips, faster,harder.

It seems fitting with the location and the atmosphere that the next place Spencer leaves his lipstick isn't Derek's lips. Instead, he runs his free fingers down Derek's cheek and chin, and leans down. He hesitates a moment, but then the beat surges under them again, vibrating the walls, and, grinding against Derek again, Spencer hungrily kisses his neck. Biting on the pulse point, Spencer drags his teeth along Derek's skin, sucks the epicenter with delicacy and care, and then just has to bite again.

"Is it my birthday or something, pretty boy?" Derek asks, running his hand up Spencer's back.

"Not for two more months," Spencer tells him, pressing a softer kiss to where he's just bitten. "I just think I finally understand. About the other night, and Sophia."

"I thought we had a rule about profiling each other." If he were actually correct in his analysis, Derek might have a point, but...

"It's not profiling." And it isn't. Profiling's hard to do when you're sliding a hand under the hem of your partner's mesh tank top, only to drag it slowly down again. Spencer runs his fingers over the boundaries of Derek's muscles, over the sweat and the chest hair Garcia didn't make him wax for this excursion... Then he turns his hand over, presses his hips into Derek's again, and his polished nails into Derek's chest.

He isn't at all surprised when he feels Derek finally go hard beneath him.

"It's just... watching you, and seeing how you react to certain things." Gingerly, he drums his nails down to Derek's navel, then turns his hand around again. Spencer wastes no time on being formal about Derek's fly or the button to his pants; both get practically ripped open, and he pulls on the leash again, just for fun. From the glint in Derek's eye, he doesn't really mind. "So I got thinking... and maybe indulging you isn't all that bad."

Without warning, Spencer slides his hand past Derek's underwear and wraps his hand around Derek's cock, holding it a bit tighter than is entirely necessary. To start, he only rubs his thumb in circles around the base of Derek's shaft, but there's more, past that. Slowly, he starts stroking Derek up and down, dragging everything out, prolonging it all for the sake of doing so. It's an interesting feeling, having Derek underneath him, feeling how his hips writhe slowly and how his knees start to buckle under him. They can't go all the way, shouldn't even be taking this long - there might be an unsub in here and, more importantly, they could get themselves arrested - and Spencer starts speeding up his strokes. Leaning in, kissing Derek hard and hungry, he moves his hand faster, faster...

And then his cellphone rings.

When Spencer drops the leash for his phone, he can hear Derek's groaning over the music; for propriety's sake, he keeps his other hand on Derek's cock, but JJ's calling. It must be important. He runs his thumb along the underside of Derek's cock while JJ tells him everything. The phone call shouldn't take nearly as long as Spencer lets it go, but he asks every question, exhausts every line of inquiry, letting Derek squirm around while he handles business. There aren't any options left when he finally hangs up.

"Emily and JJ got our guy," Spencer tells Derek, his tone light. Conversational. Not at all reflective of his hand in Derek's pants, on his cock, or the fact that Derek should be treading the fine line between pleasure and pain, right now. "He was trying to pick up a girl, they followed him into the alley. He's in custody; she's safe."

Nodding, Derek grimaces, but says nothing.

"And so I'm kind of thinking..." Carefully, delicately, and slowly - pointedly slowly - Spencer starts jerking Derek off again. He speeds up, just to slow it down again, and with one abrupt jerk, he feels Derek come on his hand. Underneath him, Derek groans and goes rather slack. Briefly nuzzling his cheek, Spencer leans to Derek's ear and whispers, "How long do you think I can keep the nailpolish? Before anybody gets suspicious?"


End file.
